


Needs

by SephMichiRook



Series: Control [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Dream Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Wtf High Wash non-logic, Wtf Simmons Logic, possibly even pre-plot, season 12 episode 19, so much Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SephMichiRook/pseuds/SephMichiRook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash and Simmons need to talk.  Before they can, Wash needs to wake up from the beating Locus gave him at the comm tower.  Before that, Simmons needs to stop overthinking what they are doing.  </p><p>He really should have thought this one through better.</p><p>See the tags: NON-CONSENT VIA LACK OF CONSCIOUSNESS. Non-violent. You have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before the Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They don't have time for anything but five words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also published in 'Pre-fight Jitters.' Just a little set up. Don't worry, smut is coming.

Agent Washington couldn't believe, five minutes after they had agreed to leave for the comm tower, and likely death, they had all decided they needed to TALK one last time.  They didn't have time for this shit. Heading back to the station from a final mission briefing with Carolina that somehow had morphed into Grif shooing him away, he was once again amazed they got anything done. 

CRACK! Wash ducked as the rock wizzed over his head. He turned and watched as it bounced off the path he had just come back up. The sound of another ricochet had him ducking again as another rock bounced off a boulder and went flying by where his head had been. “Hey, watch it!” he yelled, coming around the curve.

“Sorry!” Simmons called. “Maybe if you hadn’t just left me- Oh.”

Wash stopped short, and the two men stared at each other. The tension multiplied exponentially. Both were very aware that they were alone, and less than ten steps separated them. That their last 'encounter' had been confused, even more than the first. That they were in the open. That something wasn’t finished between them yet. And that there was no time for anything.

Wash didn’t know exactly how long they stood there staring at each other, but he was shocked when Simmons suddenly stalked across those ten steps and yanked him forward by his chestplate so their helmets touched. “Don’t. Die,” he ground out, like he was talking through his teeth. Before Wash could respond, Simmons dropped him, turned, and stalked back toward the gas station.

“Same to you,” he said over a secure line to Simmons. There wasn’t a response, and he didn’t expect one. He stood there for a few more seconds, trying to sort out what he was feeling. He was still conflicted when he went off to find Tucker and Caboose.


	2. Simmons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Simmons could see a million questions racing in Wash’s eyes, and squirmed, biting his bottom lip. “That’s one hell of a wake up call,” the ex-freelancer finally settled on, as his eyes to Simmons’ mouth. “How long have I been out?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little different from the first two parts, but safe sex needs communication. Especially when you're using loaded guns and dirty knives as sex toys.

It was late when Simmons knocked on the door of one of the few private quarters at the New Republic base. Kimball had given up her own quarters for the patient, opting to sleep with the rest of the troops. The volunteer who had been monitoring the patient, which basically meant waiting for him to wake up, wasn’t surprised to see one of their war heroes show up unexpectedly. In the last two days, almost every member of the team had shown up at one point or another to check on him. Except Tucker. He was down at the medical facility, still on bed rest. That didn’t stop him and Sarge from trying to get Kimball and Doyle to talk. But that meant he wasn’t visiting the comatose Wash, either.

“Hey, um, you mind if I take over? Grif’s snoring again, and it’s clearing out the barracks,” Simmons half-lied. Grif was actually snoring, and he wasn’t the only one avoiding it, but it wasn’t the reason he was here.

“Sure, sir,” the private yawned. “I could use some shut eye.”

“Whatever,” Simmons muttered under his breath. It had been pretty obvious he had been asleep at his post, anyway. He locked the door behind him, tossed the datapad he had grabbed to look like he was actually staying up to read, and stood in the common area for a second, taking deep breaths. Wash was unconscious. He wouldn’t know he was there.

Simmons didn’t really know why he was there, either. The two men had been dancing around each other for what seemed like months, but in reality, had been very little time if you didn’t count the four months they were working against each other on the opposite sides of this war. A few very eventful days, really. And situations like this, being alone together, was what they were avoiding. Because when they came together… Well, he’d like to say it didn’t bear thinking about, but he’d be lying. Because he had spent a lot of time thinking about them when he was alone.

The first time at the crash site before their separation could have been a fluke, just pressure built beyond what either man was really capable of handling expressing itself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The second time, there was no such excuse. Yes, there was pressure, but until this whole war thing was over, there would always be pressure. They had both wanted it. They had still found time to play, he guessed was the best word for it, somewhere between collecting the manifest and the battle for the comm tower. The knife he had been hung from was probably still in that tree. Simmons had wanted Wash to take control, had wanted that knife on his neck and pecker, wanted to see how far Wash was willing to go, how far he would make Simmons go.

He had never expected Wash to point to all his scars through his armor, though. He had never expected Wash to pin him to that tree, and then go down on him. And that’s why he was here.

Simmons didn’t mind being a cyborg. It was actually pretty cool, being part robot. Especially since it shouldn’t have worked, what with Sarge’s complete winging of it and use of office equipment to supplement the actual parts. It had taken him a while to figure out what exactly Sarge had swapped out, and most of it was actually internal. Except for the eye and hand. Sarge had been kind of upset to see he had gotten the glowing red laser one replaced when they had been assigned to Rat Trap with one that not only matched his real eye, it had some vision enhancements as well. The only way you could tell it was replaced, in fact, is if you got close enough to see the light starburst scar over the eye. The UNSC doctors had done a decent job of making it as unnoticeable as possible, but up close, or if he tanned, or even blushed too hard, it was still there.

Wash hadn’t noticed it in his workroom, at least not that he said. He had in the jungle, lightly tracing the lines with his knife, before tracing the pattern of scars on his torso on his underarmor. Simmons had almost died of embarrassment, until Wash had sunk to his knees and sucked his cock right down his throat. The flash of memory had him hard already. Simmons shook his head, trying to clear it, and went into the bedroom. Wash was lying on his back, his breathing shallow, golden blonde hair a mess. His eyelashes were dark gold crescents against very lightly tanned skin. He looked peaceful.

Simmons was instantly mad for no reason, other than right before they had left, they had secretly told each other not to die. And Wash had almost died, and that would have meant Simmons could never have gotten even. That he wouldn't have gotten any peace.

The scars from Simmons’s surgery were ugly, to say the least. The UNSC doctors had done their best to smooth them out when they upgraded the control modules on his internal organs, but they were still very visible. No neat Y shapes and straight lines here, just thick, discolored, wavy areas. The only straightish line across went from collar bone to collar bone, with a line down to the bottom of his solar plexus. From there at an eighty-seven point five degree angle, one line went down to his left side. The straight line down his torso for another three inches, with two more lines going to each side, wavy and uneven in length. Sarge had been unsure where to best stop to open up his ribs. A final downward cut ending two inches below his waist, with a C shaped curve around his belly button. Two more wavy lines angled to his hips.

Wash had gotten every one of them right. Even the belly button. Dr. Grey had later cheerfully admitted she and Wash had walked in on Sarge while he was calibrating Simmons after a nasty blow to the stomach. And while he had known Dr. Grey was there, he had no idea how long Wash had watched. It could have been so much worse. Sarge used to have to actually open him up to do any calibrations, but with the new control modules, all Simmons had to do was take off his shirt and lie down. The tool didn’t work really well through kevlar, apparently.

The idea that Wash had seen him undressed at all felt like a violation somehow. That he had stared long enough to memorize the scars just made it worse. He intended to even the scales before Wash woke up.

Quietly, he took off his helmet and gloves, making use of the armor rack Kimball had in her room. Slowly, to not disturb Wash, because him suddenly waking up would be awkward, Simmons hooked the sheet covering him with a finger and began pulling it down. He managed to get it to mid-thigh before he found a hitch in his plan.

They had put Wash in some kind of hospital gown. That didn’t work. It could, maybe, if it only tied at the neck, then it could be pulled down to his waist, he’d get his look, and then he could retie it. Of course, if it tied at mid back, too, then he’d have to try to get it undone and hope someone didn’t notice it was untied the next time they moved him. And lifting it up from the bottom would mean seeing Wash completely naked and that wasn't what his goal was.

Besides, the idea of Wash naked was sending pictures through his head of them both naked, in that bed. Of sliding between his legs and burying himself inside Wash’s ass, of stroking the blonde’s cock while pumping in and out of him. Of Wash awake, groaning and begging for him to never stop.

Simmons didn’t know if that was how it worked, really. Donut and he used to get drunk and give each other blow jobs when they were stationed in Blood Gulch, but never crossed the line into intercourse. In fact, the only person he had actually had intercourse had been a woman, and recently. But beyond that, he had no real knowledge of what came next.

Which didn’t matter, because the fantasy just exasperated his erection. He collapsed in the chair someone had put by the bed with a groan, and unfastened his codpiece, trying to get relief. He rubbed himself through his underarmor. Damnit, he hadn’t come here to cum. It was one thing to rub one out to a memory in the shower or his bunk at night, because he figured, hoped even, that Wash was doing the same. But to do it while he was right there felt dirty. Why that should make him feel dirtier than being pinned to a tree or sucking a pistol off, he didn’t know, but it did, and his trip here was NOT about sex, anyway. And he was over thinking again.

But he couldn’t ignore it anymore, either. He had been since he entered the bedroom, but now, with the image of Wash naked and writhing firmly entrenched in his head, he couldn’t stop himself. God, it wasn’t right, it wasn’t, but he needed relief, then he could do what he wanted to do, and go about his business.

Donut’s voice broke into his head, a memory of the lightish red trooper telling Simmons about the fact that he regularly woke Doc, his life partner, with hand and blow jobs, much to Doc’s embarrassment. Maybe that was it. He could just give Wash a hand job, too. Yeah. Yeah, that was the solution. He gives Wash a hand job while he masturbates, and they’re equal. And since they were in… well, he wasn’t sure what this was, but it had to do with sex, so it wouldn’t be Simmons assaulting Wash, right? He’d probably be grateful for the attention. That was it. Don’t think too hard, isn’t that what Wash told him?

Simmons quickly pulled the chair up sideways to the edge of the bed, and carefully edged the hem of the gown up until Wash’s junk was exposed. Absently noting the carpet matched the drapes and editing the fantasy accordingly, Simmons took a moment to ponder what to do, since he had such head start. Then he knelt in the chair, leaned over and took Wash into his mouth.

It had been a while, but he found sucking a penis from limp to hard wasn’t a skill you just forgot, even one as big as Wash’s. But, since it wasn’t likely he was going to see Wash soft again, he took his time, rolling it around on his tongue, sucking and nipping lightly, fondling the balls. It didn’t take nearly enough time until the head of Wash’s cock was touching the back of his throat. Satisfied, he sat back in the chair, pulled out his own cock and began working them both. He let his head fall back, moaning loudly. Nobody could hear him anyway.

He lost track of time, space, and everything but the pleasure his own hand was giving him. He was so damned close when he felt fingers tangle in his hair, and another hand join his on Wash. He froze, his mind crash landing back on Chorus. “Please don’t stop,” Wash’s voice was rough, but his grip was sure as he began moving their hands on his cock. The hand in his hair remained almost gentle though. “Please, fuck, do not stop now.” Simmons didn’t say anything, just started moving both hands again. He felt himself relax into the almost massaging fingers on his head, and his moans mingled with the blonde’s. When he came, it was just as gentle as the fingers in his hair, a mind numbing tremor, not the screaming intensity he had started associating with these encounters. A few seconds later, and he felt Wash’s cum hit his fingers as well as he groaned.

It was only then that he thought about clean up. “Shit, don’t move,” Simmons said, looking at the mess. “Let me find something.” Wash made a gesture with his clean hand, his eyes still not open. It took a few minutes but the redhead finally found some paper towels. Washing himself off in the bathroom, Simmons came back and began cleaning the other man off. “Guess I wasn’t thinking far enough ahead. That’s your fault, you know. You told me not to over think this,” he began babbling.

Wash tried propping himself up, and Simmons stopped what he was doing to stop him from moving. “Dr. Grey will have my ass if you hurt yourself before she gets here,” he said. Wash slowly lowered himself back down, but not before he hooked the back of Simmons’ head, pulling him down with him. It forced Simmons to brace himself on his hands on either side of Wash’s head.

Simmons could see a million questions racing in Wash’s eyes, and squirmed, biting his bottom lip. “That’s one hell of a wake up call,” the ex-freelancer finally settled on, as his eyes to Simmons’ mouth. “How long have I been out?”

“Fifty-seven hours, give or take,” the redhead answered, nervous. “We’re at the New Republic base, in Kimball’s quarters. She’s staying in the barracks. Sarge and Donut are back at Armonia, working to get Doyle’s people to the table. Tucker’s doing the same here.”

“So everyone’s alright? That’s a relief.” Wash smiled, and his hand dropped, and his eyes closed.

“Well, as all right as you can be with a concussion, internal bruising and broken ribs. And Tucker nearly bled out from where Felix stabbed him, so he’s on complete bed rest. But we’re all alive, yeah.”

“Where’s Carolina and Epsilon?”

“Back and forth. She’s been looking for clues on where the mercs disappeared to.” No longer being held, Simmons turned and quickly finished cleaning off Wash and covered him back up. He left to stick the used paper towels in the trash disposal. By the time he was done, Wash had managed to prop himself up a little, so that he was watching for Simmons when he came back.

“Well, I have to go get someone and let them know you’re awake, so I’ll see you later,” Simmons said nervously. Wash stared at him, and he could feel a stutter start, and had to swallow it. He turned to leave when Wash spoke up.

“I didn’t die.”

Simmons leaned back against the doorframe. “I noticed.”

Wash’s lips actually twitched, and his eyes danced. The thought came to Simmons that they could do this. Be normal. Be cool. “So, were you going to just forget your armor?”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Simmons said, heading back for the armor rack. On his way past the bed, Wash reached out and grabbed his hand, and he jumped a little.

“Why are you here?” And there went normal and cool.


	3. Wash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash has a dream. And then we get his view of chapter two.

_He wakes to someone pulling off the covers. He smiles as he opens his eyes, looking down at the woman moving between his legs, wavy blonde hair brushing his thighs. Allison. His mother. “What’s wrong, babe?” she whispers, lowering her mouth to his limp member as his fingers tangle in her hair…_

_Wash squeezes his eyes shut. Not real. Alpha’s memory, Epsilon’s dream. Not his._

_He opens them, and the world has shifted. There is still a woman between his legs, fully armored. He is now, too. She has sucked him fully into her mouth, and is trying to get him hard, rolling him around with her tongue, scraping with her teeth, swallowing around his head. He can’t see her through the dark purple hair hanging straight down. He grabs the pistol from under the small of his back with his left hand, her hair with his right. He yanks her head up, so he is staring into her ice blue eyes as he presses the gun to her forehead._

_“What, Wash? You going to shoot me?” South asks, licking her lips. “I’m just trying to say thank you.” When he doesn’t answer right away, she smirks and begins to lower her head back down. Wash pulls the trigger…_

Wash woke to someone pulling the sheet down. It wasn’t one of the doctors, they would have woken him up first, and they definitely wouldn’t have been slowly pulling it down with one finger. It was disturbing, especially considering the dream he had been having, and he tried to fake being asleep until he knew what was going on. It wasn’t easy, but he also didn’t want to overreact if it was just some random soldier being drunk and curious. Or Tucker being drunk and playing a prank.

It had better not be Tucker playing a prank, or so help him…

The sheet-puller stopped suddenly. Wash opened one eye slightly, just enough to see the basic form of his assailant. And the color. Maroon, with red hair.

What the hell was Simmons doing?

He closed his eye when Simmons turned to look at him. Listened as he collapsed in the chair beside his bed, and heard the tell-tale click-hiss of armor clasps being released. The muffled groan, then silence for a moment. And then the chair was being moved, until something bumped against the bed.

The entire time, Simmons didn’t say a word. Didn’t even seem to acknowledge Wash at all. And then his gown was being pulled up slowly, a draft hitting his junk. It took all Wash’s willpower not to react. And then the bed dipped, and warm air and fingers were touching him, a second before Simmons mouth closed around Wash’s limp member.

If he thought his willpower had been tested before, nothing had prepared him for that. Pleasure, only his, shot through him, up his spine, blasting away the lingering ghosts in his mind. He wanted to arch into Simmons’ mouth, hold his head there, and pump into it until he came. But the little part that was wondering what Simmons was doing managed to not only keep him still, but relaxed. Not being able to react, even if it was self-imposed, was nothing like anything he had ever experienced before, and erotic as hell in all sorts of new ways.

Then the wet heat of the other man’s mouth was gone, his weight left the bed, and Wash felt bereft. And then Simmons’ hand was wrapped around him, jerking him off with quick, sure strokes. Then the Red was moaning, obviously no longer caring if Wash heard him or not.

Wash could only see the top of Simmons’ head when he opened his eyes. And the hand wrapped around him. He couldn’t see anything else, but he was getting very familiar with those sounds Simmons was making, and the last thing he clearly thought was to wonder what the hell had possessed the redhead to do this.

Whatever it was, it was serious, because Simmons wasn’t fooling around. He was racing both of them to climax, and the moment Wash lost all coherent thought, he lost the ability to not react. His hands reached out, needing to touch, to prove this wasn’t still a dream, causing Simmons to freeze. Wash thought he said something, and his hand joined Simmons’, and then his orgasm hit him, and if that was a dream, he didn’t want to forget it.

Simmons left to clean up, giving Wash a chance to recover. From what, he wasn’t sure, but he was definitely feeling off-kilter. Probably the pain meds. He could feel the bandages, and while it was hazy, he remembered waking up while they were changing them last time. Yeah, hazy, and blurry, just a little. Pain meds for the win.

Simmons came back, babbling about thinking and planning, and hell if Wash could make sense of it, but damn, he looked good enough to…

Somehow, he found himself staring up at Simmons doing that thing with his lip, and he wanted to nibble that lip, too. But something in head said that would be a really bad idea, so instead he managed “That’s one hell of a wake up call.” Too familiar, it made Simmons nervous. It was something you‘d say in the morning to your lover. They weren't lovers. They _weren't_.

So instead, Wash got Simmons to talk about the others, the same status report he got earlier, but it anchored the ex-freelancer, got his mind out of this bed. Focused him, so he could focus on the fact that Simmons hadn’t know Wash had woke up earlier. Simmons left the room again. Wash pushed himself up in the bed. If Simmons didn’t know he was awake, thought he was still unconscious, then why come here? Did it matter? Maybe? No? Should it? It may not be black and white, but it sure was dark gray.

The humor wasn’t lost on him.

And Simmons was trying to leave. “I didn’t die.” It stopped Simmons, held him for a few more seconds. He needed more time, time to think, to figure it out. Damn pain meds.

There was too much about them he needed to figure out, and with what he had been told, something told him if he didn’t figure it out tonight, he may not get another chance any time soon. They may not get another chance any time soon.

He needed Simmons in this bed under him. Now.

He needed to not ignore the thinking for the physical.

But damn, thinking was really hard. And he really, really wanted more of the physical.

He grabbed Simmons when the red head went past to get to his helmet. “Why are you here?” he asked, and Simmons froze. And it suddenly mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those watching this, I'm sorry it took so long. I had a horrible time figuring out where to end it.


	4. Why Are You Here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time since the first time, Wash and Simmons do something smart. They talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I feel compelled to apologize for the ridiculously long wait between chapters. I finally just decided to give up on fitting this into four chapters, and am getting the talking out of the way. Next chapter will be 99% smut, promise.

Wash watched as Simmons tried to find an answer to the question. His mouth actually opened and closed several times before words came out. “Well, it’s just, you know, Grif was snoring again, and nobody could sleep, so I decided to come here. You know, because you were still unconscious, so it’d be quiet,” he managed to let tumble out, looking anywhere but at Wash. “But yeah, I’ve got to go let Dr. Grey know you’ve come around, so…” He tugged on his arm, but Wash refused to let go. 

“So, you really hadn’t heard I came out of it…” Wash focused on the holographic display next to the bed. “…Three hours ago?”

“What?” Simmons squeaked, eyes going wide as his head snapped back down to finally look at him, mouth hanging open, that bright red blush appearing on his cheeks. “You w-w--were a-awake the who-” Wash tugged on his arm, and Simmons’ mouth snapped shut.

“Pretty much,” Wash said. “I don’t get it. You really didn’t expect me to know you…” 

Simmons’ blush was gone, replaced with a sickly paleness. He just shook his head. “I didn’t… I mean, I wasn’t going to… It wasn’t supposed to happen like that… Er, at all. It wasn’t supposed to happen at all. I just…” Simmons gulped hard. “I wasn’t here for that at all, I swear.” He looked down at Wash, his expression hopeless and confused. “I’m s-sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Wash said. “I could have stopped you if I wanted to.” He tugged again on Simmons’ hand. “Sit the fuck down. I’m getting a crick in my neck.” Simmons obeyed, dropping down onto the edge of the bed. “Now, why are you here? The real reason.”

The Red stared at a spot on the sheet. “Because-” Simmons began after a few seconds, then stopped. “Because I needed to be sure you were okay.”

“Why?” 

“Because you’re exactly what I’ve always wanted.” The words came out in a rush, running over themselves. “I mean, in a leader. And I don’t just mean…” Simmons blushed. “I mean, Sarge is okay, but I’m pretty sure he’s going to get us killed not thinking everything through.” He finally met Wash’s eyes. “I know you’re not going to hurt me. I know it’s weird, but I trust you?” 

Now it was Wash’s turn to look away. “Don’t trust me. Please.” He said softly. “I nearly killed you.”

Simmons shook his head, thinking back to Valhalla. “That was a long time ago. You’ve really changed.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Wash said. He took a deep breath, not really wanting to say it, but Simmons deserved the truth. He deserved to know how deep he was already in, so he could get out while he could. “When you had my gun in your mouth,” Wash said, blue-gray eyes locking onto green. “I almost pulled the trigger. I wanted to pull the trigger.” He wanted to stop there, but this was too important. “I knew you wouldn’t try to stop me. And having that kind of control over you was the biggest turn-on I’ve ever experienced.” Wash could feel the red rising in his face, and he turned away again. “It was the same way in the jungle. I knew you wouldn’t stop me, couldn’t stop me from killing you if I didn’t want to. Someday,” he continued, his voice getting quieter, “I may really hurt you, or worse.”

Simmons studied what he could see of Wash’s face, his own embarrassment forgotten. He may not be the best at reading people, but even he could see how much Wash’s confession cost him. Pain and embarrassment were easy enough to see. No one knew how often he had seen it in his own mirror. He knew that he didn’t need to see Wash’s physical scars anymore. The emotional ones were there, plain as day, and as rough and uneven as the ones crossing Simmons’ chest. 

He had the overwhelming urge to try to comfort Wash somehow, to say or do the right thing to make this all alright. He covered the hand Wash still had on his wrist with his own. “So… Do you want to stop?” he asked, and felt a metal weight settle in the pit of where his stomach should be. “I mean, you know, if you’re really worried about it. It‘s not like we're in a relationship or anything.” Simmons laughed nervously, looking away again. 

Wash blinked. Of course, Simmons was right. They weren’t in a relationship. They weren’t anything, really. Friends, maybe? Fuck buddies? He really didn’t want to think anymore on what they were right now. But he didn’t want to go stop, either. The idea of going back almost literally felt like someone had punched him in the gut.

When Wash didn’t respond right away, Simmons continued. “I mean, we just refused the only way we have off this planet and picked a fight with an unknown enemy and their two overpowered, asshole mercenaries. So we really can’t afford this kind of distraction. It could get us killed,” Simmons rambled, stopping when Wash cleared his throat.

“I know,” Wash said slowly. “But three times now, one of us should have walked away, and we didn’t. And provided one of us doesn’t get killed, we’re going to be around each other a lot more than we have been since…“ Wash took a deep breath, wondering how he was the one blushing, while Simmons was definitely looking a little amused. “I have no intention of leaving you alone. Unless you tell me no right now. Then you leave, and we never mention this again.” If he could leave it alone, that was. 

Simmons gulped, and then blushed as about a dozen possible clandestine meetings flashed through his head, but the little smirk he had on his face didn't drop off. 

Never again? Not likely. 

“You know, there’s a lot of, um, closets and weapons lockers around…” He ducked his head, looking at Wash out of the corner of his eye.

Wash nodded as he picked up the list. “Abandoned alleys, possible scouting missions, empty living quarters…” He relaxed, and even felt a the beginning of a smile himself. “Every reason you mentioned for stopping is a reason to continue.” He chuckled. “Maybe next time I get to assault you while you're sleeping.” 

“I’m sorry. I seriously did not-” Simmons was interrupted by Wash grabbing his chestplate and pulling him down close.

“You apologize for tonight again, and I use this bed to make sure you can’t talk for a week,” Wash growled. Simmons felt his eyes go wide, suddenly half-hard for a second time in an hour at the implications. He gulped, and saw Wash’s eyes lock on the movement. 

“Is that a threat, sir?” Simmons asked, his voice getting a little breathy, scraping his teeth over his bottom lip. 

Wash cursed under his breath. “No, soldier, it’s a fucking promise.”


End file.
